You read things in romance novels like 'he made me melt', knowing this is physically impossible. Girls are not pats of butter. Yet my body was doing a damned fine imitation of I Can't Believe It's Not Girl, dissolving against the side of the house.
"I can't hold on to you. You're like that shooting star. Just a trail of fire in my hands."
Let's find happiness.
Oddly, I'm both incredibly stressed out - because something bad has got to be coming - and feeling a little like the story has stalled. The beauty of the writing is still there, but I'm waiting for something to happen.